Page 27

THEN:

Isla Montgomery sat at the kitchen table, the morning light bathing the room in a soft glow. Her fingers danced across the wood grain, tracing patterns as labyrinthine as her thoughts. The confrontation with her mother had left her reeling—a whirlwind of anger, sorrow, and defiance swirling in her chest. Yet as she breathed in the scent of brewing coffee, Isla's resolve hardened like the aged oak beneath her fingertips. Today, like every day, she would wear her composure like armor.

The sound of footsteps heralded a shift in the air, a drop in temperature that had nothing to do with the season. Victoria Walton entered, her silhouette framed by the doorway, each step a study in controlled elegance. The ice-blue eyes that flicked toward Isla carried the chill of winter, and her voice, when it came, was the sharp edge of frost.

"Darling, must we go through this every morning?" There was a smile on Victoria's lips, but it never reached her eyes. "That hair of yours—it looks as though you've been caught in a gale. And those clothes… They might be suitable for a bohemian escapade but not for a lady of your standing."

Isla kept her gaze steady, even as she felt the sting of the barb. She was well aware of the game of appearances her mother played, the subtle warfare waged with words and looks.

"Mother, the wind has a mind of its own," Isla replied, her voice even, betraying none of the turmoil churning within her. She tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear and smoothed the front of her blouse with a practiced hand. "And as for my clothes, I find comfort in simplicity."

The clothes, the hair—it was all a protest against her mother and what she had done to Javier, and they both knew it.

Victoria arched an impeccably shaped eyebrow, her lips thinning momentarily before she pivoted on her heel, dismissing the conversation and Isla entirely.

With a sigh that carried the weight of years, Isla pushed back from the kitchen table and escaped into the refuge of the garden. The air was fresh here, untainted by the stifling expectations that filled the house. She walked past the hedges, trimmed with geometric precision, and found solace in the wild beauty of the flowerbeds, where Clementine knelt, her hands deep in the rich soil. Usually, Clementine would take care of the household inside, but she had such a passion for flowerbeds that Victoria had allowed her to tend to some of them, and it had become her sanctuary, her place of freedom. Clementine had been with them ever since Isla could remember, and sometimes she was more of a mother to her than her own mother.

"Those roses will bloom beautifully, Clem," Isla said, her voice softer now.

Clementine looked up, a smile creasing her weathered face. "They're resilient, much like you, dear," she said, brushing dirt from her hands. "What's troubling you?"

Isla took a seat on the stone bench nearby, watching a butterfly flit from blossom to blossom.

"It's Mother. She expects me to be someone I'm not—and I fear I'll drown in the life she's crafted for me."

"Your spirit is strong, Isla," Clementine reassured her. "You are your own person, no matter what anyone else wishes of you."

Clementine's hands paused mid-air, a tender lavender sprig held delicately between her fingers.

"Sometimes," Clementine began, her voice as soft as the breeze that rustled through the greenery, "we must prune away the parts of our lives that no longer serve us, even though they've been with us for so long." She placed the sprig in her basket and turned her full attention to Isla, her gaze warm and knowing.

Isla let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, comforted by the presence of the woman who had always been a pillar of silent strength in the chaotic world of the Walton household. "But how do I begin, Clem? Where do I find the courage?"

"Courage isn't something you find, dear. It's something you build, day by day—like these flowers. You nurture it, care for it, until one day it blooms inside you, strong and beautiful." Clementine reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Isla's ear, a maternal touch that spoke volumes.

As Clementine returned to her work, Isla watched her with a mix of admiration and wistfulness. The quiet of the garden seeped into her bones, and with it came an unfamiliar sense of clarity. She traced the lines of her own palms, seeing them not just as part of herself but as instruments of her fate.

Could she truly carve out a path different from the one her mother had so meticulously planned? The thought was like a seedling pushing through hard soil—fraught with difficulty, yet undeniable in its existence. Her heart ached with longing for the freedom to express the love she harbored for Javier and to embrace the unpredictable beauty of life beyond these walls.

"Maybe it's time," Isla whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the chirping of crickets. "Time to cultivate my own garden."